What Colour Is Morning

The railway station was still quiet when Ethan toddled through the big glass doors. The air smelled of warm toast from the little café. Mum held his hand because Grandma's train would come at nine o'clock.

Pigeons pecked at crumbs beside the ticket machine. The big round clock ticked slowly above the platform. Ethan counted the shiny benches and found seven of them.

Near the last bench stood a lady in a long green coat. She had paint on her fingers and a brush tucked behind her ear. In front of her stood a tall white board on three wooden legs.

"Good morning," said the lady with a smile. "I am Annie the Artist. Would you like to watch me paint?"

Ethan nodded so hard that his woolly hat slipped. Mum sat down on the bench with her cup of tea. Ethan climbed up beside Annie the Artist to see.

On the board was a picture of the railway station. There were the rails, the benches and the big round clock. There was even a little red train puffing along the track.

But the sky in the picture was empty and white. It looked like a plate before breakfast.

"Something is missing," sighed Annie the Artist. "My morning sky does not feel like morning."

She dipped her brush into a pot of bright blue paint. She swept it across the top of the board in long, careful strokes. The blue sky looked cool and clean.

Ethan tilted his head and looked and looked. The picture looked like a chilly winter day.

"Something is missing," sighed Annie the Artist. "It still does not feel like morning."

Just then a train rumbled into the station with a long, loud whistle. Ethan's tummy jumped a little. He hummed a tune and held Mum's warm sleeve until the whistle stopped.

The train sighed and rested at the platform. People stepped down with suitcases and sleepy faces. Then the train rolled away again, slow and steady.

"Shall I try grey?" asked Annie the Artist. "The station roof is grey, after all."

She painted soft grey clouds across the blue. Now the sky looked like a rainy afternoon. The little red train seemed to want an umbrella.

"Something is missing," sighed Annie the Artist. "It still does not feel like morning at all."

Ethan wriggled down from the bench. He wanted to find the morning himself. He tiptoed to the edge of the safe yellow line and peeked along the platform.

At the far end, the sun was peeping under the station roof. It made the rails glow like two long golden ribbons. It made the café window shine pink and orange.

The pigeons looked rosy in the light. Even Mum's cup of tea had a little sparkle on top.

"Annie!" called Ethan. "The morning is not blue or grey. The morning is pink and orange and gold!"

Annie the Artist turned around and gasped. Her eyes went as wide as two buttons.

"You found it," she whispered. "Would you like to paint it in yourself?"

Ethan took the brush in both hands. Annie held out a pot of yellow and a pot of red. Ethan swirled them together, round and round, until they turned warm orange.

He dabbed the orange low across the sky. Then he added a little pink from another pot. Last of all, he painted one round golden sun peeping over the rails.

Annie the Artist stepped back and clapped her painty hands. The picture glowed like the inside of a cosy kitchen.

"Now it feels like morning," said Annie the Artist. "Nothing is missing anymore."

Mum came over to look, and she smiled a big smile. Two pigeons hopped closer, as if they wanted to see too.

Then a cheerful whistle sang down the track. A blue train slid gently into the station. There was Grandma waving from the window in her purple scarf.

Ethan dashed to Mum's side and bounced on his toes. Grandma stepped down and wrapped him in a hug that smelled of peppermint.

"Come and see!" said Ethan. "I painted the morning!"

Grandma looked at the bright picture and laughed with delight. Annie the Artist tucked the brush back behind her ear.

"Thank you for finding my sky," said Annie the Artist. "Good morning, Ethan!"